


i woke up a dying man without a chance

by jonphaedrus



Category: Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: Body Worship, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Wing Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-23 00:09:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6098431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonphaedrus/pseuds/jonphaedrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sephiran meets him halfway, and in the Black Knight’s armour, Zelgius is—oddly—taller than he is, has to bend down to kiss him. “Sephiran,” Zelgius whispers, his voice cracking, and then, when the older man pulls him over so that Zelgius can press his face into the curve of his shoulder, he goes quiet with, “Lehran.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	i woke up a dying man without a chance

**Author's Note:**

> mm, not as happy with this as i could be but rethi wanted me to post it. im gay for these fuckups...

When he hears his Sage’s voice say “Rise,” Zelgius feels like he is fit to collapse in exhaustion, in relief. He has never more happily lowered his sword, spared the life of a Laguz, turned away from the anguish and darkness that has haunted his footsteps these past months.

When he turns, Sephiran looks at him, and for a moment, Zelgius almost bends a knee. His chest feels tight, and after a moment, the Sage half-smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. It is a gentleness that Zelgius, in this moment, does not truly deserve.

“This knight will not raise his hand to me...correct?” The laughter is there, veiled in his Lord’s words, and Zelgius bites his lip to keep from replying. He wants to see Sephiran happy, to hear his clear, birdcall laugh.

Zelgius lowers his sword.

Sephiran waits for him, as he sends away the soldiers, and after they are alone, Zelgius follows him into an alleyway, sheathing Alondite. “Why are you here, Lord Sage?” Zelgius asks, as he struggles to get his helmet off, and Sephiran reaches forward with slim, nimble fingers to undo the straps, lifting the helmet from his head. 

Sephiran meets him halfway, and in the Black Knight’s armour, Zelgius is—oddly—taller than he is, has to bend down to kiss him. “Sephiran,” Zelgius whispers, his voice cracking, and then, when the older man pulls him over so that Zelgius can press his face into the curve of his shoulder, he goes quiet with, “ _Lehran_.”

“Bear it no heed.” Sephiran’s fingers brush the sweat-matted hair back from behind Zelgius’ ears. For what scant moments they have, they have each other. Zelgius reluctantly pulls back long before he wants to, and takes his helmet, straps it on once more. “You must return to Daein?”

“At once, my Lord.” A beat. “Are you travelling back to Begnion?” Sephiran tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. Then Zelgius pauses—his heavy brown cloak is stained with dirt and not a small bit of blood, and he hesitates before pressing a hand to Sephiran’s back.

The Sage winces in pain as Zelgius’s fingers encounter his wings. “How long?” Zelgius finds himself whispering, voice hoarse with worry. Sephiran shrugs a shoulder, and then he sighs, head hanging, bangs hiding the sour expression on his face. 

“They thought me a Crimean,” Sephiran whispers. “I was jailed for two weeks.” Zelgius can barely feel the bump of the older man’s bound wings through the layers of their clothes and armour, but he can see how much they pain Sephiran. Two weeks, bound up...he has gone longer, yes, but usually Sephiran airs them, once every three or four days, at least.

“Let me escort you to the border, my Lord.” Zelgius settles for, at last. “I would not broke Daein arresting the Prime Minister of Begnion a second time.”

“How selfless of you,” Sephiran’s eyes are smiling again. Zelgius, behind his helmet, returns the smile full-force.

 

 

His armour is cumbersome enough that sharing a horse is difficult, but the explanation that he will be escorting the Prime Minister back to the Begnion border is not unheard of. They camp late that night, and when Sephiran nearly slips off of the horse, Zelgius steadies him, even at his insistence he is fine. Zelgius pitches a tent, and sheds the Black Knight armour for the first time in _weeks_ aside from sleep.

He feels...himself.

In the moonlight, Zelgius builds a fire that Sephiran lights, and then pitches a tent while his Sage bathes in a nearby stream for the first time in weeks, safe from prying eyes with Zelgius there to protect him. Afterward, stripped down to only his breeches and sandals, Sephiran emerges from the stream and wrings water out of his long hair, sits crouched by the fire on the grass with his damp, shrivelled wings dripping down his back as the fire dries his soaked feathers. They eat dinner in relative silence, and Zelgius oils Alondite and his armour before ducking into the tent.

Sephiran still sits on the ground, studying the stars, fingers idly playing in his long, dark hair. “My Lord?” Zelgius asks, at last, and Sephiran turns to look at him, a sad smile playing on his features. 

“Just thinking.” He climbs to his feet and follows Zelgius into the tent, and inside, with the flaps down cutting all but the glow of the fire, they kiss again, Zelgius’s fingers sliding between Sephiran’s ribs, dipping between the bones.

He’s lost weight again.

“Let me look at your wings, please, my Lord,” Zelgius asks, and Sephiran sighs.

“It’s not necessary.” The sage looks away. “I shall deal with them when I return to Sienne.” Zelgius ignores his words, and reaches behind the other man’s back to gently pinch the base of one wing. 

Sephiran sobs.

“Please, Sephiran,” the older man makes a pained noise, but acquiesces, and Zelgius pulls his saddle over behind his lover, makes Sephiran sit on the ground, and with the diffused glow of the fire lighting them, Zelgius slowly eases Sephiran’s wings open, and then preens them for the other man, dusting old, ragged feathers to the tentfloor. They’re undersized, shrivelled from the curse that has cost his lover his voice, and their span is no longer than Sephiran’s elbows when all the way out. While they sit there, Zelgius slowly cleaning the damaged feathers from his wings, working them open after weeks bound, Sephiran tells him of his travels outside of Begnion, catching up for months apart, and when Zelgius is finally done preening out old feathers, he leans forward, presses a kiss against the top of the older man’s neck, the pale skin visible under the edge of his hair.

“You need a shave,” Sephiran murmurs, and Zelgius laughs into his jaw.

“Hard to do, living in and out of tents and never taking off my armour.” It’s been nearly two weeks since he shaved, and the stubble has come in all over his cheeks, the same dark raven’s-blue as his hair. Sephiran reaches back, runs his fingers over it, traces the shape of Zelgius’ jaw under the hair growing there.

“I’ll do it for you in the morning, before I leave.” Sephiran settles more, leaned against Zelgius’ knees, and he starts slowly on relaxing the older man’s back, broad hands at the nape of his neck and then downward, soothing Sephiran’s bunched-up muscles from sleeping on a stone floor, the anxiety that he might be found out. 

Daein has even less respect for Laguz than Begnion does. The thought that they could have hurt Sephiran makes Zelgius’ hands shake, his fingers spread warm over the base of one wing, rubs the place where the bones of his wing fuse to the bones of his shoulderblades.

“Ah,” Sephiran whispers, head drooping, and by the time Zelgius is at the arc of his wing, Sephiran is moaning in little bursts, gasping as his fingers touch gentle at old, sore hurts. When Zelgius finishes with the fragile phlanges, fingers pressed deep into Sephiran’s downy feathers, the older man has all-but collapsed into his knees, moaning tiredly.

“There,” Zelgius murmurs, when he’s done, and Sephiran makes a pained noise as he sits forward, flaps his wings a few times, stirring dirt in the tent, and stretches his hands over his head, wings unfurling from his back. Zelgius watches him, mouth dry.

He wishes, sometimes, he could have seen Sephiran when he was still _Lehran_ , when his wings spread twice as long as his arms, thick with black feathers, could lift him into the sky as easy as breathing. Now...they are simply a bad memory of times past. Done at last, Sephiran shifts to his feet, and in the dim firelight of the tent, it is almost a halo about his body.

His sage turns to look at Zelgius, his face unreadable for a moment, and slowly undoes the braid on his long, dark hair, leaving it to slide and fall about his face, shadowing his features. Zelgius waits, patiently, as Sephiran undoes the ties on his breeches and lets them puddle around his ankles, toes off his sandals. In naught but his skin he is the most beautiful thing Zelgius has ever seen— _will_ ever see. Zelgius would die for him, now, any time, forever. His skin is moonlight-pale, and his hair darker than the sky between the stars.

When Sephiran smiles, reaches forward, hooks his fingers into the top of Zelgius’ undershirt, he follows without being asked, broad hands finding the older man’s slim waist. The bedrolls are not far away, and they stumble together, Sephira’s slim, nimble fingers finding Zelgius’ hair, pulling him over, pulling him down, until Zelgius crouches between his master’s knees, leans over him.

“I missed you,” Sephiran whispers, and from him, that is as great a declaration of love as has ever graced the lips of a living man, and Zelgius kisses him like water in the desert, fumbles out of his undershirt and then moans when Sephiran grips him through his tight breeches, meant to be worn under heavy armour, fingers sliding over the head of his cock, thumb rubbing into the dampness there. “Daein is no place for you.”

“I belong at your side,” Zelgius gasps, leaning on one hand, moaning into Sephiran’s lips as he feels the other man’s answering hardness bump against his stomach. His hand shakes as he slides a thumb into his waistband, struggles out of pants and loincloth, their thighs bumping together, all skin against skin. “Nowhere else.”

Sephiran laughs, and it’s the lightest birdcall, he pulls Zelgius the rest of the way over him, only for Zelgius to stop their descent with one hand pressed to the older man’s stomach, feeling soft, downy hair and feathers against his palm.

“Your wings, Sephiran.”

“Zelgius—”

“Not on the dirt.” Zelgius hesitates, watches Sephiran’s bright eyes, blue-green as the sky on a summer’s morning. His Sage’s mouth is a tight line, but Zelgius will not hurt him—cannot. “Please.” In a bed, yes, but here, Zelgius’ weight could snap the fine, brittle bones of his wings against the dirt. The thought of Sephiran’s pained screams leaves a trail of cold sweat at the back of his neck. He could not bear it.

Sephiran hesitates a moment longer, but acquiesces at last, rolls over slightly, and Zelgius pulls the older man back on top of him, making promises with his mouth and hands that make up for being gone for months, that remind Sephiran he will return home, leaves his Sage trembling and tugging on Zelgius’ short hair, pulling their mouths together.

They have none of their regular lotion, so Zelgius stretches Sephiran with the oil he uses to keep the joints of his leather under-armour loose, and by the time he has three fingers into Sephiran the older man is moaning in high broken notes that sound remarkably like birdsong, fingernails digging marks into Zelgius’ shoulders. They kiss, breathing into one another’s mouths when Sephiran pushes his hands away, takes Zelgius’ hardness in hand, and he sobs, sobs at the too-soft touch of smooth caster’s fingers. He presses his face into Sephiran’s shoulder as the older man whispers a moan, sinks down onto him, all slick warmth and dark-tight heat.

He could die here, and feel no regret for it.

When Zelgius shudders to a halt inside Sephiran, his sage whispering words in the ancient tongue, he breathes, closes his eyes. “Sephiran,” he whispers, and then, quieter, “ _Lehran_.” The noise the other man makes is like shattering glass, but the gentleness of his fingers and the smile on his lips says his thanks, his pleasure.

“Please,” Sephiran’s voice is a pained whisper, and Zelgius rocks up into him slowly, palms and fingers finding the smooth skin of his waist and hips and thighs, marked with fine dark hair and peppered with downy feathers, softer than anything else in the world Zelgius has ever known.

Sephiran leans back, toes curling in the bedrolls, thighs tensing, and scoops hair over one arm, the strands tickling Zelgius’ chest, watches him. Haloed by the firelight, he looks something unknown, more than a man, and Zelgius whimpers, fucks up into him again, Sephiran’s cock dripping on the base of his stomach. “Zelgius,” the older man whispers, face unreadable, wings blocking out the light.

“Yes?” His voice comes out more strained than he means it to, cracking in the middle, but how could it not, when Sephiran is clenching around him, riding his cock in long, slow strokes.

Like a heartbeat. 

Like a wingbeat.

“What would you do for me?” Sephiran’s voice is low, heavy, and Zelgius closes his eyes, bows his head, presses his forehead against the dip in the centre of his Sage’s chest, breathes in the scent of his skin, feels the rapid beat of his heart.

“Anything,” Zelgius whispers, voice cracking. His fingers tremble. His heart stutter-stops. “Anything, Sephiran.” He would die, burn, kill, cry, lie, steal. He would climb into a pyre for Sephiran, drown the world, put his sword through his chest.  _Anything_.

“Kiss me, Zelgius,” Sephiran murmurs, and that is simple enough that is _easy_ enough that Zelgius cries slightly as he does it, moans into Sephiran’s mouth, hands finding the base of his wings, fingers spreading over the old, aching wounds there, and Sephiran spills untouched between them, pressing their foreheads together and panting raggedly, his high voice cracking on broken gasps, bubbling out of him.

Zelgius follows after, face buried in Sephiran’s slender neck, shaking all over, Sephiran kissing the side of his face, slim fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, and after he’s done, Sephiran slumps in his arms, unusually pliant, tired.

“What is this world,” his Sage whispers, pained. “Sometimes I truly wonder if I was ever as naïve as those children. They _trust_ , Zelgius.”

“I know,” he finds himself murmuring, not pulling out, still loathe to leave the other man, savouring these last few moments. Soon, he will have more weeks away from Sephiran, trapped in Daein, warping back to Begnion only for state functions. “Ike is...” he had seen the young man’s earnest demeanour when he had killed Gawain, the failure of which still galled. “A hero too good for this play.” 

Sephiran’s laugh is as sour as Zelgius feels, and he pulls off a moment later, making a quiet noise, bereft until they come back together moments later, tangled as they negotiate into the bedroll. With the older man’s head pillowed on his chest, breathing the same breath, Zelgius feels the last of the stresses leave him.

“I hate being him,” Zelgius whispers, words muffled in Sephiran’s too-soft hair. “Being away.” He has no choice, though. 

Sephiran’s noise of reassurance is quiet, and they meet halfway in the kiss, the older man’s fingers drawing letters on his skin, although Zelgius knows not what they mean.

“You always come back,” Sephiran murmurs. “You always must.”

It is an order—there is steel in that voice, and Zelgius pulls Sephiran closer, kisses him twice as hard.

“As you command,” he murmurs, “My Sage.” A breath, a shared laugh. “Sephiran,” and then, fingers tangling, feathers brushing his face, tears in his eyes as he tucks them together, hanging onto this single moment of quiet and peace before the nightmare of war comes to them all, before the finish and the silence of the inevitable end, “ _Lehran_.”


End file.
